


A Cold War

by just_a_winchester



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kidnapping, M/M, Mystery, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_winchester/pseuds/just_a_winchester
Summary: On a job for a mysterious buyer, Andy, Booker, Nicky and Joe are ambushed. Joe is taken, and the others will tear down walls to get him back.Set in the 1980's.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 25
Kudos: 90





	1. Breaking Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Old Guard are hired for a mission in Prague.

Nicolò tugged his gloves off and held his hands in front of his mouth, breathing warm air onto his frozen fingers. The weather was blisteringly cold, and the wind blew sharply through his position on the rooftop, biting into his skin. He was dressed warmly, a thick coat covering most of his body, a hat pulled tightly onto his head; Yusuf had insisted he wear one. 'It's the dead of winter in Prague,' he'd said with a grin, pulling the hat down over Nicolò's eyes. 'You don't want to die from frostbite, do you?'

The fur on the rim partially obscured his vision, and Nicky was debating throwing it off the roof in protest. Frostbite couldn't even harm him, let alone kill him - all Joe wanted to do was make him look ridiculous, and he'd succeeded. 

Though, Nicky had to admit, the hat _was_ keeping his ears warm. 

The others, his family, were far below him, trailing through Prague's slick city streets. The street he was positioned above was wide, tram tracks running through the centre. There was no traffic this late at night in this district. Nicky could see three figures dressed in dark clothing crossing the street a few buildings down - Andy, her battle-axe slung across her shoulders, followed closely by Booker and Joe. Nicky tracked their progress with his scope, following them up the street. The building they were heading for was old and dark, some of the windows boarded shut. They'd been paid in advance for this job - Andy and Booker had met with the financier, said it checked out. Some kind of American agency looking for documents on weapons development. Nicolò wondered what kind of documents could be found in a seemingly abandoned building - and what kind of agency would pay a bunch of mercenaries to steal them. 

He wished, not for the first time that night, that he could be down there with them. He was watching from a distance, instructed by Andy to be their eyes. 

'If things go south, I want you out here for backup,' she'd said. They'd scoped the building from the very spot he was in now, watching for activity during the day. Nicolò had mentioned his worries about this job; the vague information about what they were looking for made his skin crawl with uncertainty. Andy didn't seem perturbed - maybe she knew that even if this mission was a bust, they would get out with little difficulty. She had always been confident of their ability to disappear. Maybe Nicolò had become too paranoid.

Nicky had complied with her request, though he didn't understand what kind of backup he could be, trapped on the roof across the street. How helpful could he possibly be from here when he would be much more useful on the ground? He could barely see inside the building, and his heart yearned to fight by Joe's side. But Andy seemed certain he would be needed out here, and if the boss said this was the plan, this was the plan. 

He watched Andy approach the building, heading up the few steps to the main entrance, a gun in hand. She tried the door; locked. Booker moved forward, kneeling in front of the door while the others covered him. Nicky watched carefully as Booker picked the lock, waiting for someone to alert inside the building. Nothing. After a few moments, Booker stood and pushed the door inwards triumphantly. The other two entered the building, and Nicky smiled when Joe waved his hand in Nicky's direction before disappearing inside. 

The brick building was five storeys high, arched windows dotted along its roof. It looked much the same as any building in Prague, though perhaps more dreary. Nicolò followed the faint movement within as his team moved forward, clearing each room with practiced precision. He could just make out their movements through the windows, losing them every now and then as they passed by windows covered by boards or newspaper. He kept an eye on the floors above, waiting to see if someone had been alerted to their presence. And still, there was nothing. Perhaps this mission was to be straightforward. Almost easy. That thought didn't stop the gut feeling he had that something was wrong. 

Nicolò swayed slightly as a strong gust of wind blasted across the roof. He was laying flat on his stomach, his rifle perched on the lip of the building, and for a second he was put off target, the wind strong enough to slightly adjust his aim, perhaps a few millimetres to the left. He cursed, readjusting the rifle hurriedly and returning to his previous position. In the brief moment he'd lost visual, he had lost his team's position, and he swallowed back further curses. He breathed slow, searching methodically through each window on each floor to find them again. 

He wouldn't have spotted the enemy sniper if he hadn't been so focused on looking through every room.

* * *

It was the slightest reflection, a tiny flash of the other person's scope reflecting the light from the moon, that tipped him off. Nicolò had enough experience - more than enough - to recognise it for what it was. In the split second his brain processed the threat, he was already moving, centuries of muscle memory forcing his body flat into the hard concrete of the building. The bullet zipped past at almost the same time, hitting the brick lip of the building and shattering pieces of brick over Nicolò's head. 

His gut had been right. He should have been down there. 

A second shot rang out, hitting the brick again. Nicky moved the second after it was fired, rolling onto his back. He grabbed his rifle, pulling it off the gun rest it sat in and holding it flat against his chest. He breathed, forcing himself to wait. A third shot sounded, this one flying over the wall, close enough for him to feel the slight change in air flow as it pushed through the empty space above him. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled on his belly, his rifle held in front of him like a baton. His family was in trouble. This was what Andy had meant by providing cover from above. 

He repositioned himself further down the roof lying on his side. He would only have one opportunity for this to work, so he made himself breathe slowly, calming his mind. He inhaled sharply and held it as he pulled himself into a crouch, just enough to see over the lip of the building. Fifth floor, third window from the right. He'd missed it because he'd been so focused on the others, on their progress. Who knew how long the sniper had been hiding in that building, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. 

Nicolò move smoothly, adjusting his view and allowing for the movement of the wind. He caught the right window, saw the flash of the scope as the other sniper registered his sudden appearance across the building's roof. Nicky fired, and the other sniper jerked, their shot flying wide. Nicolò exhaled, keeping his eye trained on the window, waiting for movement. But his aim, as always, was true. The sniper was dead, or dying. 

The whole thing was over within minutes. 

Nicolò was thrumming with adrenaline, and he let it course through him, the familiar battle energy tingling his fingers and chest. He scanned the building, fighting the urge to turn and run downstairs. But he knew he had to look for more threats, and try to find his family. He found nothing, and unwilling to wait any longer, he scrambled to his feet. 'Fuck it,' he muttered, grabbing his gear. He headed for the stairwell, taking them four at a time, his rifle slung over his shoulder, holding the butt of the weapon tight against his hip. 

He made it to the street in only a few seconds and crossed it in the same amount of time, skipping over the tram lines with bounding steps. The building across from him was even more ominous up close, looming above him like a gnarled old tree. He was facing a dark fortress that had taken his family, and Nicolò was the knight sent to rescue them. He smirked. Joe would like his descriptions of this place. 

He stepped onto the sidewalk, and as he did so, the building exploded. 

The explosion happened with a crushing, sonic boom that deafened his eardrums. Nicolò flew, the shockwave throwing him off his feet. Heat burst out of the building in a wave, blanketing over him in an unwelcome change in temperature. Nicky landed hard on his side, his head slamming into the concrete. His rifle clattered noisily beside him. He briefly registered his hat flying from his head, and made a mental note not to bring it up around Joe later. 

His head felt like it had been thrown around inside his skull like a bug in a jar. He wasn't sure how long it took him to recover, but the dark sky was spinning above him for longer than he cared to admit. He could see red fire eating its way up the side of the building, pillars of black smoke billowing towards the sky. He gathered his bearings and rolled onto his side with a grown, whatever head injury he'd received in the blast already healing. He coughed, his throat dry from the heat and smoke. His family were still inside, and though they could not die, they could still be burned. Joe could still be harmed. But he was too dizzy to stand. 

Nicky made it to one knee when the door flew open. Andy appeared from the smoke behind her, the coat she'd been wearing in tatters, blood trailing down her face from wounds already healed. She had Booker's arm slung over her shoulders, her axe in her right hand, her left wrapped around their brother's waist. She set wild eyes on him before registering who he was. 

'Nicky!' she shouted. 'Take him.'

Nicolò grabbed Booker from her and lowered him to the ground. His brother was badly burned, barely conscious, his chest and arms and legs blistering underneath his clothes. Nicolò crouched by his side and pressed a hand to Booker's face, whispering soft words of comfort in every language he knew they shared. It would take some time for Booker to heal so much damage. 

He looked up at Andy, ignoring the pounding in his head. 'Where's Yusuf?' he asked. Andy didn't reply; she swung her axe, and turned on her heel, heading back inside the building. Nicky watched her go, desperate to go with her but knowing Booker needed him. 

The fire broke through the windows on the ground floor, hungry for more fuel. Nicolò grabbed Booker under the arms and dragged him from the sidewalk and into the street, away from the choking smoke and oppressive heat. Booker was breathing better, but he was still incoherent, his eyes half-closed and searching. Nicky turned back to the building, his stomach twisting painfully in anxiety. Joe was still in there, and could be hurt like Booker, or worse. Nicky cast a glance up and down the street; this would have caught someone's attention. The authorities would be on their way. They didn't have long. 

A loud groaning of wood drew his attention back to the burning building. The structure was folding in on itself, the supports eaten away or turned to ash. Nicolò watched with growing horror as the top floor fell inwards, sending bursts of dust and ash and embers into the air. The groaning grew louder, screeching and scraping at Nicolò's ears. He marched forward, his thoughts trained on Joe, when Andy burst through the door a second time. Alone. She grabbed him as she passed, pulling him back from the falling debris. Nicky fought her - Joe, Joe was in there, Joe needed him, Joe was about to be _buried_ \- but she was so much stronger, so much older, so much more than he was in that moment. 

He shouted, his voice drowned by the crushing sound of collapsing brick and wood. Clouds of dust and smoke billowed outwards, and Nicolò fought Andy as he tried to get inside before it was too late. He found himself on his back a second later, Andy's axe pressed into the soft skin of his throat. With a roar, the building broke apart, and Nicolò felt pain beyond anything he'd experienced in nine centuries. 

The building fell, and Nicky's heart fell along with it. 

When the dust settled, Andy let him up. The two of them stood side by side, staring at the still burning wreckage. Somewhere in there was Joe, trapped and suffocating and burning. Nicolò curled his hands into fists. 

'We can't stay, Nicky,' Andy said, her voice hollow. 'We have to leave.' Nicolò blinked, and he realised why she was so desperate to go - the tinny sound of sirens in the distance. Soon, this site would be swarming with police and firefighters. It wasn't safe for any of them to stay. 

They didn't have any time. Joe didn't have any time. They were immortal, but there was never enough time. Nicolò turned on his heel and grabbed Booker, hauling the healing man to his feet. His jaw was clenched so tightly he could practically feel his teeth splintering, but it meant nothing compared to what Joe must be feeling. There was too much risk to stay and dig through the burning wreckage; they would return when it was safe, when the authorities were gone and they had time to search. Nicky would force himself to wait that long, but after that not even Andy would stop him. 

Andy stayed closed behind him as they hurried down the street, heading back to their vehicle parked a block away. Whether she was making sure he didn't turn back, or was trying to hide her ruined clothes and ash-covered skin, he wasn't sure. Perhaps both. 'We'll come back,' he heard her say. 'We'll be back for him.'

Nicolò tightened his grip on Booker. They would be back for Joe. And Nicolò would destroy whoever had done this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Some creative license has been taken in regards to events, please don't read too much into it. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated/welcome. 
> 
> \- j.a.w. xx


	2. Collapsed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe is found beneath the rubble.

Yusuf readjusted his grip on his gun, the pistol awkward in his hand. It was a new weapon, the grip rougher against his palm than he was used to. 

He was following Andy and Booker up the street, pistol in hand, his sword strapped to his back. Their plan was simple; infiltrate, extract, disappear. From what Booker had told him, the building was abandoned, utilised for covert meetings. Yusuf had asked why documents would be hidden inside a dilapidated building. 

'Plenty of hiding places,' Booker had said. 'Discreet location. Where else would you hide something you didn't want to be found?'

Yusuf could think of a few places. 

He glanced up to his right, to the roof where he knew Nicky would be watching. He couldn't see Nicky from his position below, and perhaps that was a good thing; he would be hidden from other onlookers as well. Half of him wished to be up there with his husband - it was lonely without him by Yusuf's side, like he was missing a limb. He felt more on edge, more vulnerable without Nicolò to watch his back. It was rare they split up on missions, but Andy had determined someone covering them from a high position was necessary for the job. Yusuf had to disagree, but perhaps he was just being petty. 

Booker made it to the door of the building and knelt, fishing his lock pick from his pocket. He went to work, his hands moving slowly and carefully. Yusuf had little patience for such a task; he was more inclined to kick the door in than waste precious seconds on picking a lock. 

He swept his gaze down the street instead. It was empty and dark in both directions, though Yusuf worried they would be seen. It wasn't so late that no one would be out, but there was no one in sight. He wondered briefly what Prague would look like during the day, with people in the streets and the tram line running. It was not a city he had spent much time in, unfortunately. He knew it was beautiful, that much was clear even under cover of darkness, and its museums and theatres were renowned through Europe. Maybe after they were don, he and Nicky could spend some time in the streets, see the sights. Pretend to be normal. He smiled softly and his gaze lifted again to the roof opposite. Booker stood, pushing the door open, and Joe followed him inside, waving at Nicolò as he left the street. 

Inside, it was dark, but not too dark to see. The building appeared to be an old apartment building, green wallpaper peeling from the ground floor hallway, the ground covered in cracked tiles. Dust wafted through moonbeams in swirls and motes. 

They cleared the ground floor quickly and efficiently. Most furniture had been removed, what remained was a few broken chairs and one metal mattress frame. Joe waited in the doorway as Andy searched through each drawer and cupboard in the kitchen, finding nothing but dust and dead moths. 

'Where exactly are we expecting to find these documents?' Yusuf asked quietly. It was too quiet in the building; he felt like something was about to jump out at them at any moment.

'We keep looking until we find them,' Booker replied in a whisper. 'Let's try the next floor.'

They ascended the stairs slowly. Yusuf winced with every step; the thick carpet covering the stairs was enough to muffle their footsteps, but not enough to stop the creak of the wooden staircase that sounded every time they shifted their weight. His skin was tingling all over, alarm bells ringing in his head. Something was not right about this dark place. 

The first floor returned the same results as the ground floor, and Yusuf could feel frustration joining his apprehension. What kind of bizarre treasure hunt had they been sent on? He wished again he'd been able to stay with Nicky. At least that would have been more interesting. 

By the time they cleared the second floor, Joe was bored. Every room was threadbare. There was nowhere for a piece of paper to be hidden, much less a pile of documents. He could tell Andy was as annoyed as he was - she was no longer careful, slamming cupboard doors closed. Booker was watching their progress with pursed lips. 

Yusuf stretched as he left the last apartment on the third floor, waiting for the other two. Perhaps this had been a bust. At least they had already been paid. 

And then gunfire sounded above him. 

It was a single shot, loud and piercing in the silence, and it flicked the switch in Yusuf's brain. He crouched, pressing against the wall and waiting for another shot. It was impossible to know where it had been fired from, but nothing had broken around him, not even a window. A second shot rang out, followed by a third. It was coming from above, but not from inside the building. Someone was firing out. 

Nicolò. 

Joe was already moving before Andy and Booker could stop him, his feet pounding up the stairs. He forgot all semblance of a tactical approach - somebody was shooting at Nicky, and though his husband could not be killed, he was damned if he was going to allow Nicolò to be hurt. He made it to the fifth floor and forced himself to slow down. He approached the landing carefully, pressed against the wall, acutely aware of the tiny squeals he was causing as he crossed the hallway. There were three apartments up here. Two of them had their doors open, and a quick look told him they were unoccupied. The last one was closed, and when he tried the handle it was locked. Yusuf pressed his ear against the door - he could hear muffled movements from inside, like someone adjusting their weight. 

Someone had been waiting for them, probably since they'd first stepped into the building. Nicky had not seen them, otherwise they would have been taken out in the first instance. Joe felt a pit of worry grow in his stomach; if Nicky had not fired back by now, he might have been hit. 

His worry quickly subsided when he heard the fourth, and final, shot. There was a strangled cry from within the apartment, and then a heavy thud. Yusuf smiled. Nicolò had fought back, and he felt a surge of pride, followed by anger. This person had tried to kill his husband. They would not be getting away.

Yusuf heard a creak from behind him, and he glanced back to see Andy and Booker behind him. Andy's eyes were livid, and she gestured at the door with her gun. Yusuf shook his head. _Locked_ , he mouthed. Booker patted at his pocket, presumably searching for his lock pick, but Yusuf rolled his eyes. He took a step back from the door, and in a swift motion kicked the door with his boot. The lock was old and weak, and the door slammed open easily, banging loudly against the wall beside it. Yusuf readied his weapon, but there was no need. 

The room was dark like the rest of the building, with one key difference. A rifle sat in a gun rest by the window. A bed was pushed against the far wall, and a small table housed a couple of boxes of supplies and a radio. And on the floor was a man, his hand pressed against his chest, blood flowing from beneath his fingers. The man looked up at Yusuf with terror in his eyes, blood spilling from his mouth in rivulets. This was the man who had shot at Nicky. 

The man tried to wriggle away from them, but Yusuf stood on the man's arm, forcing him to stay still. He pressed with his foot, hard but not too hard. The man's eyes bugged out from his head. 

Yusuf aimed his pistol at the man's head. 'Who are you?' He felt nothing for the man, not even pity. Booker was behind him, watching closely, like he was waiting to intervene if Yusuf took things too far. 

The man gargled, words forming behind the blood in his mouth. Yusuf lifted his boot from the man's arm and crouched, listening intently. The man was dying - whatever he could get from this man could be valuable. 'Answer me,' he demanded. 'Who are you?'

'You'll...never know...'

It was then Yusuf realised his mistake. 

The man's freed hand had dropped to his side and made it into his pocket. Yusuf's eyes darted down at the movement, and he saw the man's hand withdraw, a detonator in his grasp, his thumb resting on the button. Yusuf reacted instinctively - he pivoted, and pushed. His hands hit Booker in the chest and the other man stumbled back, hitting the doorframe. Fire consumed the air around him as the explosives went off, and Yusuf inhaled smoke and boiling air. His last thought before everything went dark was of Nicolò.

* * *

Coming back was always sudden. Each resurrection was like jolting awake, with a thousand and one sensations jumbled together into a javelin that drove through him and pulled him from darkness. Yusuf never felt rested - it was always a return to pain, and exhaustion, and an aching body that was only partially together. He could pull himself together enough to fight his way through a hundred men, but the scars that remained took their toll; not on his body, but his spirit. 

This time, Yusuf was thrust into a body that was being crushed. 

He could taste smoke and ash in his mouth. His lungs burned painfully as he inhaled, the air hot and dry as it passed through his airway. He opened his eyes, and the sky above him was black with smoke. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but there was no longer a burning inferno around him but burning embers that smoulder amongst the wrecked building. He shifted, and realised he was pinned by something heavy and immoveable - a collection of rubble that pressed down on him, keeping him trapped. Yusuf managed to free his left arm, and reached above him for something to hold onto so he could pull himself out. He found nothing. He was trapped. 

The walls around him were broken into pieces, splintered turrets of wood and concrete that had turned black in the explosion. Yusuf guessed the explosives had been rigged to blow the building supports. He wondered if the intention was to kill them once they'd arrived, or if it was simply a contingency plan to protect the sniper after he had failed to kill Nicolò. He remembered the floor giving way below him, the force of the explosion breaking his body apart. He hoped Andy and Booker had made it away, that they weren't stuck like he was. He hoped Nicky was with them, and not trying to dig his way to Yusuf. The site would likely be crawling with local first responders - it was only a matter of time until he was found, the only survivor in an explosion designed to kill ordinary men. 

Yusuf was growing more alarmed at the pain that was creeping through his chest. His right leg was entirely numb, pinned out of sight. He tried to lift his head and let out a strangled groan as the movement sent pain shooting through his back. He realised the problem the moment he moved; the rubble was placing pressure on the parts of him that were broken, preventing him from healing properly and slowly crushing him to death. He was wedged tight, and could do nothing but wait, and he felt panic bubble in his throat. Death did not frighten him, but suffering did, and suffering alone was not a fate Yusuf desired. He could hear his breathing increase rapidly, and fought against it, pushing back the tightness in his chest. It faded, but did not disappear, instead adding to the weight on top of him and settling in the centre of his chest like a fist. 

There was movement behind him. Yusuf twisted painfully, unable to see behind him through the destroyed wooden struts. He could hear a rhythmic crunching noise - footsteps approaching him. A figure came into view - a double-valved gas mask covered their face, a dark coat thrown over their clothes despite the heat from the fire. They seemed to be circling him, though their head was turned towards him. Watching. 

Yusuf coughed weakly. 'Please,' he called out. He was shocked to hear his voice so weak, the air swallowed from his lungs as he spoke. Something warm was oozing across his back; probably blood. 

The figure approached slowly, stepping over pieces of concrete and around piles of ash, their boots rough on the burned floor. The hair stood up on the back of Yusuf's neck, and he was old enough to recognise and trust a gut feeling - this was not a friendly apparition. The figure stopped about ten feet away, and tilted their head, apparently unbothered by their surroundings, their focus solely on Yusuf. His skin began to crawl. Something was wrong. This person wore no uniform, no badges, to identifying symbols. They were not of the authorities, and yet had somehow managed to make it into a bomb site without being stopped. 

The figure was still watching him, head angled slightly to the left as though it were examining a specimen in a jar. They moved, approaching slowly, keeping just out of arms reach. Yusuf withdrew his arm from where it lay above his head, his senses telling him he should not ask for help, that this was not a person determined to save him. The figure moved until they were standing directly above Yusuf's head, staring down at him from above. Yusuf could see himself reflected in the eyes of the gas mask, tiny and warped and buried. He was finding it near impossible to breathe deeply now, his body succumbing to the pressure, and he knew he was going to die again soon, he just wasn't sure when. 

The figure moved again, after several minutes of standing stock still, unwavering. Their hand lifted, holding a gun with a muffler attached to the barrel, which the person pointed at Yusuf's head. He stared back, unflinching and unafraid. A quick death would almost be mercy, he told himself. He breathed, his lungs barely expanding, and waited. The gun fired twice, two flashes, and Yusuf's body slumped underneath the rubble, dead for the second time that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be out sooner than today, but I've had some busy shifts at work that have left me feeling exhausted. This chapter didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped either, so I hope I can do better on the next one. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> \- j.a.w.


	3. Seek, and You Shall Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Old Guard return to the wrecked building to look for Joe.

The street had been cordoned off by a barricade, behind which a crowd had formed, attracted by the smoke and smell of fire, and the dozen uniformed officers that were combing through the rubble. The fire from the explosion had not spread to the nearby buildings, suppressed by the cold weather and rain that had fallen in the early morning. Black smoke hung in the air in a plume a mile high, marking the site for the whole city. 

Across the street, in the same spot he'd hidden last night, Nicolò watched with a heavy heart. 

They had headed back to the site as quickly as possible from their hideout, changing out of their ruined clothes and driving back at dawn. Booker was still recovering, but had insisted on coming with them. All three of them were desperate to get Joe. They had arrived to find the site already crawling with officers, like flies on a carcass, clearing away the rubble. They had managed to sneak up to the building on the other side of the street and head up to the roof, hiding out of site of the onlookers. Nicolò had no idea what the officers were looking for, but he knew what he was waiting for - a body. Joe's body. The minute it was recovered, he would be down there on the street, fighting whoever he had to fight to get Yusuf back. 

Andy sat by the lip of the building, her hand resting on the divot in the brick made by one of the bullets that had been fired at Nicolò last night. He would have been more concerned that someone would see Andy under normal circumstances, but he didn't have the energy to question her, and he was pretty sure she didn't care. All three of them were strained, arrows drawn on a bowstring and ready to fire. Nicolò was buzzing with and energy he had no outlet for, worry and longing for Joe practically consuming him. 

'Anything yet?' Booker asked. He was seated further back, leaning against the door up to the roof in case someone tried to come up. Nicolò could see exhaustion pressed into his face, his skin pale and grey. He'd been pretty torn up by the explosion, and was still recovering, but had refused to stay behind. 

'No,' Andy replied. Her voice was tight and curt. Nicolò knew they were all hanging by a thread, ready to break. He recognised that while he was full of pain, Andy was full of guilt. She'd left a soldier behind, and not for the first time.

'What if...' Booker trailed off, letting the question hang in the air. He didn't have to finish his thought - Nicolò knew what he wanted to ask. He shot the other man a sharp glare, but Booker didn't recoil. He met Nicolò's gaze with soft eyes, sad eyes. Nicolò bit back the words he wanted to say; he wasn't ready to entertain the thought that Joe might not have made it at all. He didn't need Booker to verbalise the worst case scenario; he'd already thought it a thousand times. 

Andy shifted, moving into a crouch. 'There,' she said. Nicolò joined her by the edge of the building and watched as two men in brown uniforms carried something out of the rubble. A stretcher, with a sheet draped over the top of it. A body. 

Yusuf.

Steel gripped Nicolò's stomach and squeezed. The two men loaded the stretcher into the back of a waiting van, closing the doors behind them. The van drove off a few moments later, as the officers on the site began to clear out of the building, apparently finished with searching the site. One body accounted for, the rest would be cleared up a demolitions crew. The van headed down the street and turned the corner, disappearing from view, take Nicolò's world with it. 

Nicolò slammed a hand into the brick wall in front of him, hitting it hard enough to crack a bone in his hand. He hissed at the pain, but it was nothing compared to the agony that washed over him. His ears were ringing. He stood and reeled away, his mind whirling. It would be impossible to find Joe, his body taken and transported far away. To a morgue somewhere? And why the body bag? He must not have come back yet, there was no other reason. There c _ould be_ no other reason. 

'Nicolò.'

Joe was gone. Joe was alone, still dead, carried far away and never to be seen again. The minute the authorities discovered Joe's secret, he would be shipped elsewhere for testing, experimentation, torture. Or maybe he would be locked away in a hole in the ground, and Nicolò would never find him. He dropped to the ground, remembering the anguish Andy had gone through when they had lost Quynh. The painful memories burst into his brain like fireworks, traces of loss and grief amplified by what he felt now. He couldn't bear to go through that again. He refused. 

'Nicolò!'

Andy was in front of him, her hand tight around his forearm. He blinked, realising she and Booker had been trying to get his attention. His breath was uncontrolled, ragged, coursing through him like it was unable to stay in his lungs, and he inhaled deeply, holding it for a few seconds before letting it go. The panic - because it was panic, uncontrolled and immeasurable - faded slowly. Andy was holding his gaze with that familiar determination she always held, and she squeezed his arm, the pressure helping him focus. 

'What's next?' she asked, but it wasn't a question. It was an order. She already had a plan, but she wanted him to tell her, to focus, to think of how to solve this rather than spiralling. 

He inhaled again, his mind landing on the most obvious solution. 'The vehicle,' he said. 'We find the van, we find Yusuf.'

'What else?'

'We contact the buyer and track them down. We find who was responsible for this.'

'And then?'

Nicolò's heart was slowing in his chest, and a calm seemed to settle over him like a veil. He turned his hand so he was holding Andy's forearm in return, his fingers finding purchase in the soft skin of her arms. This was not an impossible task; they had succeeded in far worse situations. Yusuf was still alive somewhere, waiting. Nicky was sure of it. 

He clenched his jaw. 'We kill them.'

* * *

The air was sharp and cold. Yusuf inhaled it deeply, and then coughed when it coursed into his lungs, the first breath in a long time inflating his chest and bending muscles stiff with disuse. He shivered, cold air raising the hair on his bare arms. He was lying on something hard, warmth leeching into the surface beneath him. He blinked, and when the darkness did not lift from his eyes, he wondered if he was blindfolded. He lifted his hands to touch his face, and discovered they were tied together by something hard and cold. Chains, or perhaps cuffs. He couldn't feel anything covering his head or eyes. It was the room, black as pitch and freezing like ice. 

He moved slowly, his head pounding as he rolled onto his back. He remembered the building, the explosion and being crushed afterwards, and someone arriving only to shoot him in the head. He was exhausted, the trauma of his recent deaths leaving him aching and longing for a warm bed, for Nicolò's embrace. With great difficulty, Yusuf sat up, his head spinning, the darkness making it difficult to tell which way was up or down. It was disconcerting, being unable to see his surroundings, and for a few brief seconds he felt a wave of nausea surge through his stomach. He breathed, eyes closed, and finally regained balance. 

He was pleased to find his legs were untied, and he managed to shuffle into a kneeling position and then stood, breathing sharply as the change in position sent a rush to his head. He could hear the sound of metal clinking together as he moved, and experimentally moved his hands. His restraints were attached to a chain, but it was long enough to give him some room to move. He stepped outward carefully, his foot searching the floor in front of him for traps or things to trip over. After a few painstakingly long minutes, he found out how long the chain was when his arms were tugged. He reached out as far as he could with his leg but could not find a wall in front of him or beside him. He walked the perimeter of the chain, trying to find a surface around him, but there was nothing. He was trapped in a seemingly endless dark room. 

Yusuf turned and grasped the chain, following it back to where he'd woken up. The chain ended in a thick loop of metal jutting out of the floor. He gave it a pull, but it was buried deep, and did not give. 

He ended up on the floor, sitting in what he presumed was the middle of the room, the darkness ever present and smothering. His eyes had not adjusted, as though all the light had been sucked out of the room. His wrists were aching from the tight cuffs, his attempts to find a loose chain link or slip his hands out of the cuffs futile. He was trapped. He could feel hunger creeping into his stomach, and thirst drying his throat, and he wondered how long he had been here. How long had it been since he had been shot?

His thoughts, inevitably, turned to Nicolò. He was worried. How long had he been apart from Nicolò? His husband was looking for him, he knew, as the others would be. But was he safe? Had they escaped, or were they trapped like he was? The thought of Nicky trapped in a room like this, or perhaps in a different prison created specifically for him, made Yusuf want to kill whoever he could get his hands on. 

Yusuf smiled slightly. He supposed the silence would eventually drive him mad and vengeful, but until it did, he would compose his next poem for Nicolò. 

* * *

When the lights turned on, Yusuf was blinded. 

They were bright, positioned on the ceiling above him. He had been lying on his side, not quite sleeping but not quite awake, his eyes half-closed. Now, he was barely able to see, though he could make out a faint outline of a door behind the lights, built into a wall so high he couldn't see the top. The lights were joined by a deafening tone that played over a speaker, a monotonous ringing that was painfully loud. Yusuf groaned and sat up, squeezing his eyes against the overwhelming stimuli, almost missing the darkness that had been his reality only a minute ago. 

There was a grating alarm, and then a door slid open, a window of light appearing on the wall. Yusuf stood as a man walked in; he was large, his face hidden behind a cloth rag tied over his mouth and nose. In his hand flashed a knife. The door slid shut behind the man, closing him inside with Yusuf. 

The man approached him slowly, the knife spinning loosely in his hand. Yusuf stood stock still, his eyes trailing the man's movements as he circled back and forth, like a shark swimming to blood. 

The man moved as quick as a snake, and slashed out with the knife, thrusting forward at Yusuf's ribs. He dodged the attack easily, deflecting the arm with the knife and jabbing an elbow up at the man's nose. The man stumbled back, and then came again, slicing across this time. Yusuf leaned out of the way, and drove a fist into his attacker's side, the chains clinking loudly as they moved. The man recovered quickly, sending two more quick slashes Yusuf's way; he missed the first one, and the second one caught Yusuf across the forearm, driving a deep cut into the muscle. Yusuf hissed at the cold metal, the pain melting away quickly as his skin knitted back together. 

The fight didn't last long. The man threw a punch, and Yusuf stupidly, instinctively, grabbed the man's arm. A second later, he felt pain bloom in his side; he glanced down to see the knife sticking out from between his ribs. The man drew back the weapon with a sickening squelch, and Yusuf stumbled back, pressing his hands to his side. He could feel the wound already healing, but it was deep, and he was bleeding profusely. His attacker circled, blood dripping from the knife's blade as he walked. 

Yusuf dropped to one knee, catching his breath. 'You thought this would be harder, huh?' he said. His attacker didn't respond, pacing back in front of Yusuf. 'That I had a reputation?' he continued. Yusuf leaned back on his shins, raising his hands, palms open, a soft smile on his face. 'You win. Finish the job, eh?'

The man seemed to grin behind the mask, and lunged once more. Yusuf was ready, launching himself to his feet, and he quickly disarmed him, twisting the man's hand so he dropped the knife. With a well-practiced smoothness, Yusuf placed a foot on the inside of the man's leg and shoved him in the small of his back, forcing him to the ground; the man fell heavily and hit the ground face first. Yusuf knelt on the man's back and collected part of the loose chain, looping it around the man's neck and pulling it taut. He held it, the droning tone overhead drowning out the horrible sound of the man choking. 

It was some time before the man took his last breath, and Yusuf let the body drop with a thud, heaving with exertion. He lifted his blood stained shirt and checked the knife wound; it was half healed, blood still streaming in rivulets down his side. He stepped away, unsteady, and ended up on the ground on the other side of the room, the body face down on the floor across from him, its eyes fixed on something Yusuf could not see. 

The lights turned off as quickly as they'd turned on, and Yusuf was plunged back into darkness, silence following not long after. His breathing was impossibly loud in the sudden quiet, laboured and too quick for his liking. He pressed his hands to the wound in his side, waiting for the bleeding to stop, when the door opened a second time. Bright light poured from the other side, silhouetting several dark figures. Yusuf could see the figures moving in the dark room, two of them bending to collect the body, the others training guns on him. They slid the body unceremoniously across the floor, one of them collecting the bloody knife as they passed it, and the others followed them out. He was tempted to go after them, but there was no way for him to get out of the chains so he could reach the door. It slid shut, and the darkness returned. 

Yusuf swallowed, regret coursing through him like a tidal wave. He could picture how he must have looked, viciously killing that man like he was an animal, no restraint. If he'd known people were waiting to collect the man, he wouldn't have done it, even though that man had been trying to kill him. Life and death situations meant something different when one party could not die.

He'd never liked killing, ever since the first time he'd done it all the way back in the eleventh century, during the Crusades - it made him feel dirty, and guilty, participating in something he could never take back, never change. Irony found its foothold in his life and had not left, granting him the gift of immortality as if to say "you must live forever with your actions". God had made him sin, and then taken any chance he had to repent it. 

And he hadn't hesitated. 

Yusuf curled himself up on the floor, suddenly grateful that the darkness could hide his shame. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delayed update, it's been busy. Not one hundred per cent happy with this chapter but it needs to be put out. 
> 
> Would you believe I was listening to "Falsetto's" when I wrote this?
> 
> Thanks for reading! x


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